Chapter Seventeen

The wind forced the party indoors, but not before Lady Freesia won the tournament and thus would collect favors from both Lord Devand and Lord Sutton. It was neatly done of her, and Eliza was left wondering not if Wessex had orchestrated that very outcome—for there was no doubt in her mind that he had—but why.

But that question was not nearly so pressing as the clear dismay on Riya’s face. She frowned darkly at Mr. Vidyasagar, for naturally he was to blame for her friend’s distress. His own expression was carefully blank, a sure sign of his guilt.

The guests reassembled in the drawing room, where several trays of sandwiches, tarts, and cakes had been laid out. Eliza selected an apple cake the size of her palm—made from yesterday’s bounty—and turned to her friend.

“Are you all right?” she asked, her voice a low murmur to avoid prying ears. It was a house party, after all. Nothing was so entertaining at a house party as lovers and their quarrels, and if neither lovers nor quarrels could be found, why, then both must be invented.

“No.” Riya kept her gaze lowered, studiously examining the heap of pastries as though it was the only thing of interest. “It seems you were correct, and I was too optimistic in assessing Mr. Vidyasagar’s intentions.”

“His intentions do not have to inform your own, do they?” Eliza asked hesitantly. “He will not carry you off unwillingly.”

Riya gave a toss of her dark braid. “Of course not. It is only that I do not wish to cause him more pain. I have done nothing to encourage him in this nonsense, but he is my oldest friend, and he has traveled so far. He hoped to rescue me, I think, from my own poor decisions. But I am quite happy, and he must be made to understand that.”

There was a steely determination to her tone that did not bode well for Mr. Vidyasagar, Eliza thought with a small smile.

Parlor games were suggested to pass the time, and they settled on hide-and-seek. Naturally it was little more than a ruse for a discreet lovers’ tryst, but Eliza was fond of the game, as she was good at hiding when she did not wish to be found. An idea had occurred to her—a conversation, a smell, a feeling—and she itched to get the words on paper before they disappeared into the ether of forgotten thoughts. Fortunately, she kept a bit of foolscap and pencil in her dress for just such emergencies.

Instead of the library—which was sure to be the chosen spot for Adelaide and Mr. Eastwood—she moved swiftly toward the conservatory. She glanced behind her to ensure she wasn’t followed. Satisfied that she was alone, she pushed through the door. Behind her there was laughter and hurried footsteps, but inside she was enveloped in warmth and quiet. She breathed deeply. The fragrance of citrus mingled with greenery and damp earth.

She looked around with some curiosity, for she knew indoor gardens were a pet interest of Wessex. Indeed, the space seemed very much him, slightly messy and yet methodical beneath the facade of disarray. Potted palms and ferns clumped together between orange and lemon trees. Near the windows were orchids, their bright faces arcing from slender stems.

A long table stretched beneath a large window. There was naught on the table but three small potted ferns, a sheaf of foolscap, and a potbellied water pitcher. The ferns were a lovely bright green, with airy leaves that seemed to dance on an invisible breeze. Eliza tugged off her right glove, finger by finger, and stroked one tendril. To her surprise, it immediately folded in on itself, the leaves snapping shut two by two like a rolling wave.

“Goodness.” She peered closer.

“Mimosa pudica.”

She spun around. “Pardon?”

“Mimosa pudica,” Wessex repeated. “That is the name of the plant. Pudica meaning modest or bashful.”

“How fitting. Did I do it injury?”

“No.” Wessex stepped closer. “Wait a moment and see.”

They waited, watching. Moments passed into minutes, and then slowly the fern stretched shyly open again. Eliza laughed delightedly. “How funny! Wherever did it come from?”

“The West Indies, originally, although this plant in particular hails from a fellow in Hampshire. It does not produce edible fruit or seed worth harvesting, but it amuses me. The Sensitive Plant, they call it, and it is indeed very sensitive. The flowers are fluffy purple spheres, I am told, but I have not yet managed to coax it into bloom.”

He was standing close now, the sleeve of his jacket brushing the sleeve of her dress. So many layers of fabric between them, and yet she was aware of a quick movement of his arm, as though the muscle had tensed and bunched in, like the mimosa, at her touch.

“Why does it shrink like that?” she asked, meaning the plant.

“There is a tedious scientific explanation about water and electric current. But I suppose the true answer is that the world is a hungry place and it does not wish to be eaten.”

“I can sympathize. Dear, funny thing.” She leaned down for a closer inspection. When the leaves quivered in response, she straightened, moving away to give it peace. “It’s enough to make you wonder about it all, isn’t it? If a plant feels touch, what else does it feel? Do plants feel pain? Do they fall in love?”

“Even as you speak, there is likely a scientist torturing a mimosa for answers to those very questions. I just want the blasted thing to bloom.”

Eliza arched a brow. “Because it had the audacity to refuse your request, I presume? The very nerve of it.”

He laughed. “A duke is not accustomed to being told no, even by a plant.”

“Hmm. And yet you are so often at my heels, even though I take great delight in telling you no.” She started down the path between the orange trees, sending him a teasing look over her shoulder.

“Oh, my dearest Sigrid.” He placed a hand to his heart and bowed with mock gallantry. “A no from you is worth a thousand yeses from any other lady.”

She rolled her eyes, and he laughed again.

“What of a yes from Lady Jane?” Her face suddenly felt hot and flushed. She buried her nose in fragrant blossoms and inhaled deeply. “Or Lady Louisa, or Lady Abigail? In a fortnight’s time, you will ask one of them a question, and her yes will make you far happier than any of my nos.”

“It will not be Lady Jane, I think,” he said, and she blinked in surprise.

“No?” she asked. Then she bristled. “Why not? She is exceedingly talented and altogether lovely. What fault could you possibly find with her?”

“None at all. She is perfection itself, but it does not follow that she is perfect for me. She has devoted herself to her music, and I fear she is here reluctantly. Such an all-consuming interest will allow her no time to be a duchess. She will need a husband as passionate about her voice as she is, who will follow her through the great music halls of France and Italy and Germany, but it cannot be me. We simply will not suit.”

Eliza could not tell for certain whether the rush of emotion was disappointment or relief, and decided to call it merely a friendly curiosity.

She cleared her throat. “I wonder that Colonel Kent has not found us yet,” she remarked. “We have not hidden ourselves very well, and yet we remain undiscovered.”

“Ah, yes, Colonel Kent. I believe he is tracking a lady who is fiery of both hair and spirit. It may take him a while to get to us.”

Eliza pursed her lips. “I see. So your scheme has to do with Colonel Kent as well as Lady Freesia?”

“On the contrary. My scheme has no more to do with Colonel Kent than it does Lady Freesia. They are both means to an end.”

“And what does that end entail?”

“Oh, the usual things.” He gave a noncommittal wave of his hand. “Liberty and justice, and all that rot.”

She stroked the glossy leaf of a lemon tree thoughtfully. “Liberty and justice? I wouldn’t have suspected such motives from you, Your Grace.”

“Oh, the motives are not mine,” he assured her. “Like all noble yet asinine ideals, they belong to Abingdon. I merely borrow them from time to time, as the fancy strikes me. And now, Miss Benton, shall we duck behind that shrubbery just over there? I fear we have been discovered.”

Before she could say a word, he had seized her by the elbows and propelled her behind a large potted orange tree.